“Phone,” he croaked.
“Yes, baby,” she said. “You can tell me all about it as soon as I fix you up so you don’t bleed on my carpets. Lie on the floor. It’s washable.”
He laid his cheek gratefully against the cool black and white tile. He heard her muttering above him while she did something to the back of his head.
“Not as bad as I thought,” she said finally. “In six months you’ll be as good as new.”
Shayne raised his head. “What time is it?” It came out as a meaningless grunt. He said it again, more carefully.
“Not quite nine. Can you walk? Crawl? I better drive you into Marathon. If we make it a house call, the doctor won’t be here before noon.”
Shayne brought himself to his hands and knees, then came erect with the help of the kitchen table. He bared his teeth in what he meant as a smile. She was wearing city clothes, a striped cotton suit, and she had brightened her lipstick while toning down the colors around her eyes.
“I want to phone.”
“What? I didn’t catch.”
The room turned over, and the detective sat down in a straight chair. “Phone!” he said impatiently, and pantomimed a phone call.
“Oh, the phone,” she said. “You’d better wait till you get your tongue working again, don’t you think? I’d advise it.”
“I’ve got to hurry.”
“What?”
He looked away hopelessly and saw a coffee pot on the stove.
“You want some coffee, is that it?” she said.
He nodded. While she was lighting a burner and getting a cup and saucer, he shook hands with himself in an attempt to restore the circulation.
“I won’t ask you what happened,” she said, “because I can’t translate that gibberish. But Christ, people don’t drop in this way, with their wrists tied and a rag in their mouth. Who did it? Where’s the VW? Mike, hurry up, get better.”
“Where’s Barbara?”
“Did you say where’s Barbara? You’re improving. She went to Miami.”
Shayne groaned and started to get up. The ceiling descended rapidly, dealt him a hard rap and retreated to its usual place. He sat back and put his hand to his head. To his surprise he found that he was wearing a bandage.
“Don’t pull it,” Eda Lou said. “It’ll come off. Outside of the phone, and believe me, you can’t handle any phone calls yet, is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Cognac.”
“You’re still talking baby talk. That sounded like cognac.”
Shayne nodded.
She laughed at him. “Honey, if I give you a drink with that hole in your head I’ll be liable. You could sue me for thousands and thousands, not that you’d be able to collect thousands and thousands.”
Shayne pushed himself up. This time he made it all the way.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get it. But I’d make you sign a waiver if you could hold a pen.”
The coffee was boiling when she came back. She turned it off and poured a cup, adding a few drops of cognac. When he growled at her, she added a little more.
Shayne’s fingers were being stabbed with sharp needles as the blood came back. He put his face down to the coffee and breathed in the pleasant fumes.
“When did she leave?” he said.
“Barbara? Twenty minutes ago. Today’s her nurse’s aide day, but I don’t know if that’s where she’s going. She was in a foul mood. We had words, and she slammed the door on the way out, as if we don’t already have enough broken glass. Hell, I’ll help you.”
She steadied his head with one hand and lifted the coffee with another. For an instant, after taking the first sip, he felt almost normal.
“Who’s the guy with the beard?”
“Hank Sims, Kitty’s husband. Is he the one who jumped you? Of course. You’re working for Kitty and he’s in the middle of a mean divorce. I’m kind of surprised you let him get away with it, though.”
“Had my back turned,” Shayne said bleakly. “Loan me your .25.”
“What for?”
He made a peremptory gesture and she shrugged. “O.K. If you’re going after Hank Sims in that condition, you’d better have something. He’s nobody’s dream boy. Shoot a couple of holes in him and I’ll give you a dollar.”
She left him sagging over the coffee. As soon as she was out of the kitchen he fought his way to his feet and followed quietly.
He stopped at the top of the two steps leading down to the living room. She was rummaging in the little drawer in the long mahogany table. After sliding the drawer shut she straightened and stood for a moment, her back to Shayne, thinking.
She turned decisively. Seeing Shayne, she put her hand to her heart.
“Not there?” Shayne said.
“How hard do you have to get hit before you stop thinking? No, it’s not there, which doesn’t mean a single damn thing. I’m getting forgetful in my old age. I put it somewhere else, that’s all.”
“Or else Barbara took it to Miami.” Shayne came down the steps and dropped onto the sofa, at the end nearest the phone. “Bring me the coffee.”
“Go to hell.”
Shayne rubbed his forehead. “Eda Lou, if Barbara’s walking around with a gun in her purse, I want to know it. I need that kind of information. I also need coffee.”
“Poor man, my heart bleeds.”
She went to the kitchen, came back with coffee and put it down near him. “But she didn’t take the gun. I remember now—I put it away upstairs. And on second thought, I think I’d better hang on to it.”
“Are you going to help me with the phone?” Shayne said wearily.
She lit a cigarette deliberately. “I suppose I have to, if I want to find out what’s going on. Why don’t I take you to the doctor first?”
After a moment she moved a straight chair into position and sat down.
“The News,” he said. “Ask for Tim Rourke.”
He told her the number. The switchboard girl at the paper passed the call on to the city room. She gave Shayne the phone.
He dropped it. She picked it up for him and wedged it into place against his shoulder.
“Mike?” Rourke was saying. “Mike?”
“Yeah,” Shayne grated.
“I’ve been wondering,” Rourke said with none of his usual levity. “I talked to the helicopter guy on Goose Key and he said he hadn’t heard from you. At twenty-five bucks an hour he’s in no hurry. Where are you?”
“Same place. Is Natalie in the office?”
“Sure. Want to talk to her? Kitty got off to New York O.K., if that’s what you’re worrying about. Nat can give you the details.”
Shayne motioned at Eda Lou. She gave him her cigarette and lit another for herself. He crouched over the coffee and took a long sip. As he straightened he noticed Eda Lou flick back her sleeve to look at her watch.
“Mike?” Natalie said, out of breath. “We were thinking of calling out the Marines.”
“I got sidetracked. Tell me about Kitty.”
“She’s in New York, Mike. She just called me from Kennedy. She woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep so she took the six-o’clock plane. She left me a note. She’ll be staying at the airport hotel, the International, if you want to call her. She said to tell them who you are and they’ll keep on ringing her room till she wakes up.”
Shayne tried to remember what else he had meant to ask her.
“Mike?”
“Yeah. Put Tim back on.”
“Mike,” Rourke’s voice said, “I’m sitting here trying to write the Brad Tuttle story. There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know.”
“There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know. You’ll have to go with a bulletin in the first edition, whatever the cops put out.”
“I already told the desk that was pure crap,” his friend protested. “I said I’d write the real story as soon as I heard from you.”
“That’s how it has to be for now,” Shayne said. “H
ow did he die?”
“Gunshot. He’d been in a fight, knifed in the lower abdomen, bad cut over the eyes. He had about ten-percent vision, they figure, which is one reason he didn’t stop when they yelled.”
“What were the cops doing there?”
“That I didn’t ask. I assumed they were cruising.”
“Tim, I want you to get hold of Shanahan. Somebody has to hold his hand till I get back. Tell him what happened to Brad. Then stick with him. I mean in the same room till he goes to court. Go to the john with him. Hold on a minute.”
He asked Eda Lou, “How much did Frank pay for the judgeship?”
“Forty thousand,” she said promptly, then caught her breath and threatened him with her fist.
Shayne returned to the phone. “If he tries to throw you out, tell him you know about the forty thousand, who got it and in what size bills. I’ll meet you at the court house as soon as I can.”
“Mike, do you feel O.K.? You sound kind of fuzzy.”
“I’m fine. Get on it.”
Eda Lou broke the connection. He refreshed himself with more coffee. His mind had begun to move, lurching painfully from point to point.
“The St. Albans on the Beach.”
She looked up the number and dialed it, then looked at him questioningly.
“Harry Hurlbut,” Shayne said.
When the hotel security man answered, she asked him to hold the line.
“This is Mike Shayne, Harry,” the detective said, taking the phone. “I want to check a reference. Who’s your assistant night manager nowadays?”
He felt for the envelope on which he had jotted down two of the names on the affidavits Hank Sims had flashed in front of Barbara. “The name Emory J. Sedge doesn’t mean anything to you? One more thing. If you have your payroll handy, look under the T’s and see if you have a bellman named Robert Truehauf.”
He waited.
“I didn’t think you would,” Shayne said. “Thanks. I’ll buy you a drink in a day or so and tell you about it. I have to rush.”
He dropped the phone in his lap and told Eda Lou: “Get me Will Gentry, Miami Chief of Police.”
She placed the call. Gentry wasn’t in his office, she was told, but he was in the building somewhere; they would hunt him down and have him return the call.
She squinted at Shayne over her cigarette. “You have no reason to confide in me, but I’m on the fringes of the family and I can’t help wondering. How did you get those St. Albans names, just for instance?”
“I used a bullhorn with a two-way amplifier,” Shayne said.
Her lips twitched, depositing cigarette ash on the front of her suit. “Sarcastic son of a bitch, aren’t you? We don’t have TV down here. I have to make my own entertainment. And where were you at the time, may I ask?”
She removed her cigarette. “I know!” Going to the kitchen, she came back with Shayne’s gag and shook it out. It was a torn piece of black cloth with part of a skull-and-crossbones showing.
“Barbara’s tree house! How long were you up there?”
“Long enough,” Shayne said.
The phone rang. Shayne picked it up.
“This is Gentry,” a gruff voice said. “What is it now, Mike, trouble?”
“The usual kind,” Shayne said. “Murder.”
“Who’s been murdered?”
“Two brothers, Ev and Brad Tuttle. Ev was a drunk. He went out in a mattress fire. You have it listed as accidental. You’re probably working on Brad now.”
“Nothing to work on. It’s open and shut. Your information is off for once. He was shot by a police officer. One of my best men, Hubie Elliot. I hope you’re not trying to pin anything on the department, Mike. Your batting average is pretty good, but this is one time you’re going to go down swinging.”
“I didn’t say Elliot murdered him. He was murdered by whoever put him on that street corner at that time of night with a knife in his hand. How did it happen your men were there waiting for him?”
Gentry said grudgingly, “We had an anonymous tip that a burglar was going to be working that block. O.K., Mike. Tell me more.”
“There’s an elimination contest going on. We started with five contestants, and we’re down to three. But what they don’t realize is that the game is fixed. It’s the big con, one of the best I’ve seen. I don’t expect you to follow this, Will. But unless we move fast we’ll have a couple more murders.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to round them up. The three principals plus an estranged husband. Number one—”
“Whoa! You know I can’t commit the department to that kind of operation with nothing to go on but a phone call. I also wouldn’t say you sounded exactly sober.”
“You’re within your rights, Will,” Shayne said carefully. “Even though one of the threatened persons is a Civil Court judge. This is a democracy. There’s no reason a judge should be given more protection than an ordinary citizen.”
“Damn it, Mike,” Gentry said after a moment. “Wait till I switch in the recorder. O.K., go ahead.”
“The touchy one is Frank Shanahan. You’d better collect everybody at his chambers. Hank Sims—late twenties, six one, about a hundred and ninety, full beard. He was driving a white Chevy convertible when I saw him. Wait a minute. I’ve got an informant here who may want to tell us where we can find him.”
He was looking at Eda Lou. She shrugged.
“He keeps changing addresses. The last I heard, he had a little business taking pictures of houses for real-estate agents. He must have a phone and a dark room somewhere.”
Shayne relayed this information to Gentry. “Now Mrs. Sims. Kitty Sims. She’s at the International Hotel at Kennedy Airport in New York. Tell her I said it’s O.K. to come back. Send somebody out to meet her plane.” To Eda Lou: “Nobody told me Barbara’s married name.”
“Lemoyne.”
“What hospital does she work at and what kind of car does she drive?”
“Angel of Mercy. Green Oldsmobile, four-door.”
She was meeting his gaze too candidly. He told Gentry, “Barbara Lemoyne. I’m told she may be working at the Angel of Mercy and she drives a green Olds sedan. You’d better check the other big hospitals and see what the Motor Vehicle Bureau says about her car. I hope to be back by ten, if I can talk my friend here into driving me to the heliport. I’ll meet you at the County Courthouse.”
He handed the phone back to Eda Lou and she depressed the bar.
“You really recover when you put your mind to it, don’t you? Anybody else?”
“Hilary Quarrels, the Florida-American Land Company. Let the operator find him. He may not be in Miami.”
Eda Lou raised her eyebrows but made no comment. After giving the operator the necessary information she leaned back, the phone to her ear.
“You’d like a lift to Goose Key,” she said. “Fine. But don’t I deserve one or two morsels in return?” She waved the phone at him and screamed, “What the hell do you mean the game’s fixed?”
Shayne winced. “Quieter. What’s your idea about why Cal left you out of his will?”
She stiffened. “He didn’t. He left me some money. He said in the letter I could live here as long as I please. I’m not wild about this kind of life. I like to have a little something going on. He didn’t know the Key was going to be worth anything.”
Shayne said softly, “The hell he didn’t.”
“Maybe eventually. Not in my lifetime. You’ve talked to a couple of people, done some eavesdropping here and there, somebody sandbagged you, and all of a sudden you know more than everybody else combined! What game is fixed? You can’t drop a remark like that and expect people to pretend they didn’t hear it. I’m more than a match for you, Mike Shayne! You explain that this minute, or so help me I slug you with the phone!”
Shayne laughed. “Did you find anything when you dug those holes out in the swamp?”
She looked at him open-mouthed. “I wish I knew
how much you heard,” she muttered.
“Everything that was said in this room,” he told her. “Let’s talk about Shanahan. Was he Brad’s lawyer, too?”
“God, no. He never handled anybody small.”
“Who made the deal that got Cal his jail sentence?”
“You’re really going back, lover. Frank made it, who else? And it was a tricky thing. He reached a couple of guys on the jury. They dismissed three out of four counts and let him off easy with manslaughter.”
Shayne was scraping his chin with one thumbnail. “What did you do while Cal was in jail?”
She smiled slightly. “Baby, that intuition of yours. I couldn’t write him because we weren’t man and wife. If I had to send him any messages, and I did, all the time, they had to go in through his lawyer.”
“You moved in with Shanahan?”
“This is ancient history! It sounds lewd to say it at my age, but I was only twenty-five then, and any time I had to spend a night by myself it was a night wasted. That was my philosophy. Cal never knew what was going on. Why dredge it up now? If you think that’s why he included me out of the Key, you’re wrong.”
Noises came from the phone and she sat forward. “Mr. Michael Shayne calling. Hold the line.”
The detective took the phone. “Quarrels?” he said without preliminary. “About the Key Gaspar deal. You’ve probably heard that another joint tenant was killed last night?”
“No,” the voice said cautiously. “Which one?”
“Uncle Brad.”
Eda Lou picked up Shayne’s empty coffee cup and took it to the kitchen.
“When you say killed,” Quarrels said, “I take it you mean accidentally?”
“No. He was knifed, cut up with a broken bottle and shot. All of which goes to prove that Gaspar actually may be worth something. I understand your purchase hinges on a document purporting to be a treasure map.”
Quarrels gave a small chuckle. “Put it like that and it seems absurd. But it’s going to give us a wonderful selling angle.”
“I can already see the ads,” Shayne said dryly. “How about you personally? Do you think there’s buried treasure on the Key?”
“Well-l, if you want an off-the-record answer, and I’ll deny it if anybody quotes me, let’s say that on that subject I have a well developed bump of cynicism. At the same time, I recognize a first-class story when I see one. There isn’t much romance in real-estate development as a rule, Shayne. We sell location and shelter. At so much a square foot. If you can add a small dash of pirate gold, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum and all that, and make it look reasonably plausible, it gives you an edge. That’s all we’re looking for here. Will the Key be mentioned in connection with Tuttle’s death?”
Mermaid on the Rocks Page 11
